


Winding Road

by Lbilover



Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Invasion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8802523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/pseuds/Lbilover
Summary: Casey tries to move on after graduation, but certain memories prove impossible to leave behind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll be honest: I’ve never liked the ending of ‘The Faculty’ (while understanding the irony of it), and so I’ve developed a little theory as to why Zeke and Casey act as they do. Soundtrack (and therefore title) for this story is Bonnie Somerville’s ‘Winding Road’ (from the movie ‘Garden State’). Originally written in 2007.

Casey stared out the window of his dorm room. _Isn’t it always supposed to be sunny in California?_ he thought wryly, watching the rain run in rivulets down the misty glass. He touched the cool pane with a forefinger, following the zigzagging trail of a raindrop, then abruptly removed the finger, frowning, as an image of spawn with tiny razor sharp teeth and dangling blood-red tentacles popped into his mind. 

For a moment Casey imagined he could feel them again, experience the agonizing tearing burn as they dug their way frantically beneath the skin on his face in a race against time. It took an effort of will not to raise his fingers to his cheeks, search them lightly for scars that he knew with his rational mind didn’t exist. 

How many times in the months since that day had Casey scrutinized his face in the mirror? Yet not even the flawless smoothness of his embarrassingly girlish complexion was enough to convince him that he hadn’t been scarred for life. But there were scars, weren’t there, and then there were _scars_ … the ones that lurked beneath the surface, unseen but every bit as potent a reminder of the past.

 _Fuck._ His pale reflection in the glass was overlain by those rivulets of rain, blurring its outline, and his eyes looked dark and haunted. Casey turned away from the window, wondering when if ever the memories of that day would cease to hound him. He’d hoped to escape them here at Stanford, a place as distant and different from Herrington, Ohio, as could be imagined, but he should have known there was no running away.

In the background, Casey could hear the unbearably perky voice of an announcer for the CBS morning show chirping the weather forecast. The word ‘Ohio’ caught his attention, and he was reeled in, struggling feebly like some worn-out fish at the end of a line, by the TV in his tiny bedroom. 

The weather map on the snowy black and white screen showed clear skies over Ohio and that spot, right there in the center of the state, where Herrington was located. How fucking ironic. Rain in California and sun in Herrington. Zeke would say… Casey’s mind shied away from finishing the thought. Zeke would have nothing to say. When would he ever accept that fact? Zeke had never had anything to say, had he, the only word that had ever crossed his lips was _Casey_ … 

_Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._ A gut-clenching heat flared to life inside Casey, in the deepest part of him, a mix of pleasure and pain roused by the memory of that single word and the way Zeke had whispered it into Casey’s sweat-damp hair when he came, as if it had been torn unwillingly from his throat, half a prayer, half a curse. 

Unthinkingly, Casey raised his left thumb to his mouth and worried at the cuticle with his teeth until the coppery tang of blood mixed with the Tabasco sauce he dabbed on his cuticles every morning in a vain attempt to cure himself of his nail-biting habit. But neither the sting of Tabasco in the abraded flesh nor the burn of it on his tongue was enough to dispel the memories from Casey’s mind. Nothing was. He had fled to California more than anything to escape the dead-end street that was Zeke Tyler, but he kept making that same wrong turn, over and over again.

There was a sort of inevitability about what happened next, as if Casey was performing the steps of a ritual, one he’d long ago perfected. He closed the door to his bedroom- unnecessary as his roommate had already left for his first class of the morning- turned off the perky weather forecaster, and moved slowly to his chipped and scratched wooden desk. He tugged open the top left hand drawer, the one that was so warped with age and abuse that it stuck repeatedly, and then reached in and took out an 8x10 manila envelope. He pushed up the metal tabs that held it closed and carefully, so as not to get any blood from his ragged finger on it, he withdrew a matte black and white photo and held it delicately in his small hands. 

He didn’t even need to look at the photograph, really, any more than a blind man needed to see the sun to feel its heat. He knew by heart the image of Zeke’s naked back: the elegant sweeping curve from the base of his neck, where there was just a hint of raggedly cut dark hair, to the swell of firm buttocks and the beginning of the shadowy cleft between them. Zeke at rest was all long lean lines that reminded Casey of some languid great cat, a cheetah perhaps or a leopard. The muted light in the photo created shadowy dips and hollows in Zeke’s spine that cried out for exploration with hands and mouth. _Fuck._ Casey was starting to get hard. 

But then he’d known he would. Wasn’t that the point, after all? He should take another photo, Casey thought sourly, this one of himself holding the photo of Zeke: _Self-Portrait of a Pathetic Loser_ , he’d call it. The worst of it was that Zeke didn’t even know Casey had taken the photo. 

Casey wasn’t ashamed of his lack of ethics in photographing Zeke without his consent; he had long since come to terms with the decision. He understood exactly how Psyche must have felt in that myth they’d studied in history class: so desperate for a glimpse of her sleeping lover that she’d risked the wrath of the gods to get it. Although Casey suspected the withering scorn of Zeke Tyler would be a hell of a lot harder to take than any reprimand from Mount Olympus. 

As Casey continued to stare at the photo, his mind drifted back to the day he took it. It was the one and only time that Zeke had fallen asleep after they’d made love- _fucked_ , come on Connor call it by its real name- instead of rolling off Casey, discarding the condom with a negligent hand and then reaching for his cigarettes. The only time he hadn’t lain propped up against the pillows with one sinewy arm behind his head while he blew smoke clouds at the dingy ceiling and watched through half-lidded eyes as Casey, awkward and unsure, and girlishly wanting more than a mere fuck, pulled on his clothes without a thought for showering first, grabbed his camera and messenger bag, and bolted from the room before he could do anything stupid, like ask Zeke what this all meant to him- if anything. 

That one time, though, Zeke had actually fallen asleep immediately afterward, still half inside Casey; his greater weight and length had pinned the smaller boy uncomfortably to the mattress, but Casey hadn’t minded. He’d lain there for as long as he could tolerate it, imagining that this was a deliberate action on Zeke’s part, borne of a desire not to be separated from Casey. 

But a soft snore that tickled the hair on the back of Casey’s neck put the lie to that theory. Eventually, panting and cursing beneath his breath, he’d managed to worm his way out from under Zeke. The older boy hadn’t stirred but sprawled carelessly on his stomach with his head turned to one side and his mouth lax, dead to the world. Casey’d had every intention of doing as he always did and beating a hasty retreat in the face of Zeke’s post coital indifference, but the beauty of that naked back and ass had been too much for his photographer’s eye to resist. 

He’d grabbed his Nikon, adjusted the settings to take advantage of the light, and started snapping. The sound of the shutter’s click had seemed disproportionately loud in the silence, and Casey’s heart had begun to pound with fear that Zeke would wake and catch him in the act. But unlike poor Psyche with her candle, he’d gotten off scot-free.

And the next day, with fingers that shook, had developed this picture in the high school photography lab. Even dripping wet with chemical solution, he’d seen at a glance that it was the best photo he’d ever taken, but it was also the one that nobody else, especially Zeke, would ever see. He’d tried to part with it, leave it behind when he went off to college. He simply couldn’t do it. This much of Zeke, at least, he could always possess.

Still holding the photo, Casey walked over to his bed. The rather saggy mattress was covered by a set of ridiculous navy blue and red space rocket sheets and a matching comforter that had been a going-away-to-college gift from his mom. If it had been anyone else, he might have suspected her of irony. But the sad truth was that she still seemed to labor under the delusion that Casey was ten years old in spite of the fact he’d been featured on the cover of _Time_ and _People_ and dated, however briefly and absurdly, the most popular and beautiful girl at Herrington High. 

He should have ditched the sheets and comforter and bought something mature and better suited to the New and Improved Casey Connor, funky haircut and all, but then Casey was honest enough to admit that this was simply one more sign, as if he needed any others, that he still wasn’t over Zeke Tyler. 

For fuck’s sake, no guy would ever bring a date, male or female, back to a room that had space rocket sheets on the bed. 

Casey set the photo on the nightstand, propped up at a precise angle against his alarm clock, and methodically began to undress. He wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to strip for Zeke, to remove his clothes slowly and provocatively under that enigmatic dark gaze… He flushed a little at the thought, not because the idea embarrassed him really, but he’d never moved with grace in his life, and his body was not exactly anyone’s ideal of male beauty. Delilah certainly hadn’t thought so, and she’d made no secret of it, either. As for Zeke… well, guys didn’t talk about that stuff to each other, did they. They did it in near-total silence, with only the occasional, “I’m coming,” or “Oh shit.” Only a romantic fool like Casey had to bite his lip bloodless to keep from saying things like, “You’re beautiful, Zeke.”

It was a moot point anyway. Casey had never had either the nerve or the opportunity to try his ungainly version of a striptease. Zeke had proved all too efficient at removing both his and Casey’s clothes the moment they got through the door to his bedroom. 

The memory of those long and capable fingers attacking buttons and zipper was enough to wring a helpless moan from his throat, as was the vivid image of Zeke grasping the hem of his white tee shirt with crossed hands, and pulling it off in one swift, fluid motion. The way he’d stood there that first time, the shirt dangling carelessly from his fingers, totally at ease as Casey’s helpless, fascinated eyes roamed across those well-developed pecs and abs then fastened on the trail of dark hair that descended from his navel to disappear beneath the elastic of his boxers…

 _Oh shit._ Casey’s palms were sweating, and he was fully erect and aching.

He quickly lay down on the still-scratchy polyester Kmart comforter that no amount of washing could soften, and wrapped his damp palm around his dick. Staring at the photo, he stroked himself, moving the loose skin up and down in a circling motion, the way Zeke had always done it, while he pinched at his budding nipples with his other hand, imagining it was Zeke who was alternately biting and suckling them, turning Casey into a frenzied, swearing, desperate version of himself he didn’t even recognize.

Adrift in sensation, he let his focus go hazy and one of his favorite fantasies- he had quite a few- come into play… _He is pushing Zeke over onto his stomach, straddling his naked thighs, rubbing himself against that perfect ass while Zeke murmurs encouragement, until finally, with a cry, he is coming in spurts all over that sleekly muscled back._

It didn’t take long for Casey, with a soft agonized whimper, to come in fact, onto his own slightly rounded soft stomach. He lay there panting for some minutes, the sticky evidence of his unrequited need cooling on his belly, and something he absolutely refused to call tears starting to seep from beneath his eyelids at the unfairness of it all.

 _Fuck it._ Casey covered his damp eyes with his forearm while the bitter musk of his own come made him doubly aware of what was missing from this scenario. _If I’m the fucking hero, the killer of the Alien Queen, the savior of Herrington and the rest of the fucking world then why am I jerking off alone in my room?_

It was the ultimate in fucking irony, Casey thought as he finally sat up, fumbled for the box of Kleenex next to the alarm clock and grabbed a handful to clean himself, that he’d found so much of what he’d been looking for here at Stanford: anonymity, for one thing, and a chance to be himself without worrying about the Gabe Santoras of the world shoving him face first into lockers or ramming his crotch into flagpoles. 

No one here gave a shit if Casey couldn’t tell a cornerback from a quarterback. He’d found his niche among the computer geeks and science nerds. He had his photography classes, and the encouraging words of his instructors that he had a natural gift and a bright future if he chose to pursue it. He’d even made a few friends, people who truly seemed to like Casey for himself, and not because he was dubbed a ‘hero’ in a bout of media frenzy.

If anyone here recognized Casey Connor or recalled his 15 minutes of fame, they didn’t let on. Oh, he caught an occasional speculative eye trained on his face, as if the person was trying unsuccessfully to place him, but he wasn’t dressed like the geeky Stephen King kid now. The overlarge plaid shirts, Levis and running shoes that he used to wear had long since gone into the good will clothes bin, and he looked like any other skinny college freshman in faded torn jeans, tee shirt and scuffed leather boots, his wrists adorned with a motley collection of bracelets in place of the bulky watch he’d always worn.

Even Casey’s roommate Tim, who was if possible a bigger geek than Casey, had only shrugged after Casey confessed to his true identity during their first week at school. “Alien killer. Cool, man,” he’d said, and returned his attention to the computer program he was writing. Tim had never mentioned the matter since, which was fine by Casey.

The truth was, here in California Casey was just one alien among many. In Herrington after the invasion, there had only been him and Zeke.

***

_The distinctive roar of Zeke’s black GTO caught Casey’s attention as he hurried, head lowered against the biting wind, along the cracked sidewalk toward home. When the car slowed, engine growling, and began to pace him, Casey turned his head and saw Zeke leaning across the front seat, one long arm outstretched to roll down the window part way. “Get in,” he said curtly._

_Casey didn’t need telling twice. It was fucking cold out. He clumsily opened the door with numbed fingers and climbed into the passenger seat. The car screeched away the moment Casey had the door closed, and he held on for dear life as Zeke made a quick u-turn, burning rubber. To Casey’s relief, Zeke then eased off the gas and proceeded down the street at a reasonably normal pace. Just the sight of a police car was still enough to give Casey the heebie-jeebies._

_The inside of the car was blessedly warm. Casey stuck his freezing hands in front of the hot air blasting out of the vents and shivered a little. It was weird sitting in the GTO again. Casey had wondered why Zeke went to the effort and expense of having the burnt, dented wreck of a car restored, but chalked it up to another of these things, like football, that he simply didn’t understand: guys and their attachment to their cars. But the car in some odd way was like the essence of Zeke Tyler, and Casey felt strangely glad to know that Zeke had a sentimental side._

_“Where are we going?” he asked after a minute or so, when Zeke offered no explanation._

_Zeke glanced at him in surprise, eyebrows raised. “Does it matter?”_

_Casey rolled his eyes. “Of course it matters. I was on my way home, Zeke. Which, in case you weren’t aware, happens to be in the opposite direction.”_

_Zeke shrugged. “You been grounded, Casey?”_

_“No.”_

_“Then what the fuck does it matter if you don’t trudge right home after school like a good little boy?”_

_Zeke had a point. Once their son had become a media sensation and proclaimed a hero, his parents had pretty much let Casey do anything he wanted. Curfews were a thing of the past. But still… “You haven’t answered my question.”_

_Zeke shrugged again. “I thought we could hang out at my house for a while. Maybe order in some pizza. Watch a movie.”_

_This was a first. “Are your parents home?” he wanted to know._

_“My parents are_ never _home,” Zeke said flatly._

_Casey fell silent. He was puzzled. In the three months since the invasion, he and Zeke had mostly gone their separate ways, as they had before it. But Casey at least had always been peripherally aware of where Zeke was and what he was doing, even if the most they ever said to each other outside their shared classes was ‘Hey’ as they passed in the hallways or parking lot._

_Casey’d come to the conclusion that you couldn’t go through what the two of them had and not form a sort of bond, whether you liked it or not. Hell, they were the only two people at Herrington High who hadn’t been taken over by Marybeth. And they’d worked together like a team that night after She’d gotten to Stokes and Stan._

_It still surprised Casey, that instinctive rapport they’d shared in the face of the enemy threat. Maybe it had only been the extremity of circumstance, but recalling how Delilah hadn’t hesitated to abandon Casey after he slipped and fell in the hallway running from the faculty lounge, he was reluctantly forced to conclude that he and Zeke, school bad boy, might actually have something in common._

_Now he wondered if Zeke felt that bond, that rapport, too. Had he kept track of Casey’s movements? How else could he have known Casey’s route home from school? Casey had an instinctive feeling this was not some random event, and had to quell a little surge of heat at the idea that Zeke had deliberately sought him out. Certain images he’d seen at awkward moments, certain dreams from which he’d woken sticky and spent, now forced their way to the front of his mind._

_Casey had learned an awful lot about himself in the weeks since the invasion. For one thing, he’d begun to think he’d been keeping the wrong kind of porn stashed under his mattress._

_“So, still feeling like a hero, Case?” Zeke asked around the cigarette he’d just shaken from a pack and placed between his lips. He was leaning negligently back, steering the GTO with a forearm resting across the bottom of the steering wheel while he thumbed his Bic with his other hand._

_“I never did,” Casey said, watching as the lighter flared into life and Zeke lit the cigarette. “That was just Delilah’s bullshit.”_

_“Yeah?” Zeke inhaled and then let out a stream of smoke. “I heard she dumped you and took up with Gabe. Guess the captain of the football team trumps the alien killer every time, huh?”_

_“Fuck you, Tyler,” Casey retorted without heat. “And anyway, that’s more of Delilah’s bullshit. It was a mutual decision to break up. Neither of us dumped the other.”_

_“That’s not the way she’s telling it- to anyone who’ll listen.”_

_“Yeah, well, she can say that if it makes her happy- make it a headline in the school paper for all I care. It doesn’t change the facts.” Casey honestly_ didn’t _care. In hindsight, he knew that he’d only dated Delilah to prove a point to himself. “What about you? I heard you dumped Miss Burke and quit the football team.”_

_“Correct on both counts.”_

_“Why?” Casey was genuinely curious._

_Zeke didn’t answer immediately. He took another drag on his cigarette, and appeared lost in thought. Eventually he said: “Did you ever try fucking someone whose head you saw running around the parking lot on octopus legs?”_

_Casey had been expecting some typical Zekeian response such as ‘Because I’m a contradiction’. The reality threw him._

_“No,” Casey replied slowly. “I’ll bet it’s pretty hard to block out the memory, though.”_

_‘Because I felt just as creeped out sometimes when I was with Delilah,’ he wanted to say, ‘thinking I could see the spawn bulging out and those red cracks appearing in her skin, wondering if She was really dead. Sometimes I thought what I saw in Delilah’s eyes wasn’t attraction, but resentment, because I’d taken that beauty and peace away from her. Sometimes I had to imagine she was someone else just to keep from embarrassing myself, and wilting like the lettuce in the cafeteria salad bar.’_

_He wondered if Zeke had ever had to play similar mind games when he was with Miss Burke, and whom he’d imagined in her place…_

_“Hell yeah, it’s hard.” Zeke drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “But I did it, Case, same as I looked Coach Willis, Gabe and the rest of them in the eyes and played on their fucking football team.”_

_“Because if you didn’t, you’d have lost your nerve and gone in fear of them, all of them, for the rest of your life. Started running and never looked back.” It was a profound relief finally to say it out loud, and to the only other person in Herrington who could possibly understand. He_ knew _. Zeke fucking_ knew _. Casey hadn’t realized until that moment how completely alone he’d felt._

_“Yeah, that’s right,” Zeke agreed quietly. “But there’s nothing left to prove now; it’s time to move on.” He glanced away from the road and his deep-set brown eyes held Casey’s for a heartbeat. “So, man, did you and Delilah ever actually do it?”_

__Shit. _“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, Zeke, but as a matter of fact, we did.” A handful of times when Delilah wasn’t busy with cheerleading practice or editing the school newspaper or painting on lips that took hours to apply… Casey’s innate honesty made him add, “Although she was the one who did most of it.” And was probably mentally writing editorials or reciting cheers the entire time._

 _Zeke was shaking his head as he turned the car in the familiar driveway. “Delilah on top- now why doesn’t_ that _surprise me.”_

_“Fuck you.” Casey was nettled by the implied insult._

_Zeke parked the GTO under the car porch and shut off the ignition. He turned sideways in his seat and lounged against the door while he considered Casey through half-lowered eyelids. The _ping_ of the cooling engine sounded loud in the sudden quiet. “Is that what you want, Casey? To fuck me?” he asked softly, a glint in his eyes and a pulse leaping to life at the base of his throat. “Or for me to fuck you?”_

_“Wh-" But Casey couldn’t finish the word much less frame a coherent sentence in response. He sat gaping as Zeke slid out of the car, slammed the door and mounted the steps to the side entrance, pulling a house key out of the pocket of his dark blue duffle coat. Then Casey hastily gathered up his stuff, his heart beating fast, and followed Zeke into the house._

_It wasn’t either/or, as a matter of fact. Casey wanted both._

***

Casey tossed the wadded up Kleenex into the wastepaper basket and sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, his limp dick in its nest of dark curls looking as unhappy and unfulfilled as Casey felt inside. 

_Be brave_. The impatient scornful words Delilah had thrown at him outside the faculty lounge echoed in his brain. Well, he had been. Not a hero, Casey’d been telling Zeke the truth when he said he wasn’t a hero. But he _had_ been brave. He sure as fuck wasn’t being brave now, though. He was, in fact, being the world’s biggest fucking coward. He had never worked up the courage to voice the questions that had hovered unspoken on his tongue so many times: _What does this all mean to you, Zeke? What do_ I _mean to you? Are we just fuck buddies until someone better comes along, someone who wasn’t part of the invasion?_

He was fooling himself if he thought he could ever move on without getting Zeke’s answers to those questions. His life felt incomplete. They hadn’t even said a proper goodbye, for fuck’s sake.

_Casey slid his arms into the sleeves of his overlarge plaid shirt and began to button it. His fingers were trembling a little. Through wreaths of smoke from the cigarette he was holding between two fingers, his other hand cupped underneath to keep any ashes from falling on his naked chest, Zeke was watching Casey with his usual enigmatic expression. He said not a word as Casey finished dressing and slung his messenger bag over his head, only continued to watch him steadily._

_“Um, I’d better get going,” Casey said, fingering the strap and resisting the urge to raise his thumb to his mouth and worry at it. “My mom’s planning a farewell dinner for me. And my dad and I have to be up early to hit the road.” He met Zeke’s eyes briefly and then looked quickly away. The tightness in his chest and the ache in his throat meant tears weren’t far off, and he would fucking die of humiliation if he cried in front of Zeke._

_He wasn’t sure what he had expected of their last time together, but it wasn’t that it would follow the same pattern as all their other times. Zeke knew, had known for weeks, when Casey would be leaving for California. Was it too much to have expected a little show of regret or sorrow? Sex aside, they had become friends. They’d shared pizza and movies, gone for rides in the GTO, hung out with Stokes and Stan… Maybe talking wasn’t a strong point for either of them, but surely on this occasion Zeke could’ve made an effort._

_But Zeke only nodded and took a drag on his cigarette. For all he seemed to care, Casey might be running to the store to pick up some Doritos and Coke, not leaving for college and a new life on the west coast._

__The fucker. Doesn’t he feel anything? Can’t he say _something_ even if it’s just ‘thanks for the sex, Case?’ _Anger stirred in Casey, chasing away the impending tears. He set his jaw, the way he had when he was staring into Marybeth’s alien eyes. “So, I guess this is it then.” He moved toward the door, a little stiffly. Zeke had taken him even harder than usual, as if determined to leave his mark on Casey, make certain he never forgot how it felt to be possessed by him. “Maybe I’ll see you around when I’m home at Christmas.” He hesitated then added, “Good-bye, Zeke.”_

_He was almost out the door when Zeke said, “Casey?”_

_Casey halted, but he didn’t turn around. He was afraid to let Zeke see the hope in his eyes. “Yeah?”_

_“Take care of yourself.” Zeke’s voice sounded uncharacteristically gentle._

_It wasn’t until the next morning, when Casey fastened his seatbelt, his dad said, “Ready, Sport?” and they began to drive away, that Casey finally accepted that he wasn’t going to hear the squeal of tires and the roar of the GTO’s engine as Zeke came chasing after him._

The problem, Casey thought now, was the movies. All those fucking movies with their fucking scenes at fucking train stations and airports and bus terminals where at the last minute, just as the hero was about to depart, nobly suffering in silence, his lover ran up to the window and pounded on it, begging him not to go, or shouted ‘I love you! I’ll follow you!’ as the train/plane/bus pulled away. But reality was nothing like the movies, was it. Sometimes the hero had to be the one to get his ass in gear and do the chasing.

There was simply no way around it, Casey thought morosely as he stared out at the gray, rain swept day. He was going to have to be brave again.

He was going to have to go home and confront Zeke.

***

Herrington was enjoying a rare late Indian summer day. The sun beat down through the windshield of his mom’s silver Civic as Casey, tense with nerves, drove toward Zeke’s house. His hands were damp on the steering wheel, but not because of the unexpected heat or his relative lack of experience at driving. 

His parents had been understandably concerned when Casey called from the Columbus airport and asked to be picked up. He hadn’t told them what he was planning, and he’d been forced to make up a lie about the university being closed for a few days for teacher conferences, and then a half-truth about feeling homesick and deciding on the spur of the moment to return and surprise them.

He’d emailed Stokes first to find out if Zeke was even around before booking his ticket with the money he’d saved from graduation presents and his part-time job in the university’s chemistry library. She and Stan were attending the local community college, and sharing an apartment in town, much to their parents’ collective disapproval. 

Stokely was able to reassure Casey that Zeke _was_ still around, just as he had been since the rest of his classmates went their separate ways that fall. The news was a relief… but also a worry. As far as Casey knew, Zeke hadn’t even applied to any colleges, which in his opinion was a total fucking waste of a brilliant mind. 

When Casey’d hesitantly broached the topic over the summer, as the time for his own departure for Stanford loomed nearer and nearer, Zeke had only shrugged. He had reluctantly revealed to Casey that he’d scored 1590 on his SATs, and to Casey’s amusement, he’d clearly been majorly pissed off that he hadn’t gotten a perfect 1600. He’d claimed that there were a couple of questions on the test for which the _real_ correct answer had not been listed. Knowing Zeke, this was probably the truth, although why his score mattered when it appeared he wasn’t planning on college anyway, Casey had no idea. There were times Casey was forced to agree with Zeke’s smug self-assessment that he was a contradiction- although a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma seemed a more apt description.

On the positive side, Zeke _had_ finally graduated from high school, although in typical fashion he’d blown off both the graduation itself and every post-graduation party to which he’d been invited. When Casey’d turned up at his house late that night, a little bit drunk from a few beers and a lot reckless- he’d never before had the nerve to show up unannounced that way- they hadn’t even made it upstairs to the bedroom but had a celebratory fuck right inside the front door. After which Zeke had driven Casey home in total silence and waited with the car idling to make certain he got into the house safely- behavior that had left Casey more thoroughly confused and unsettled than ever.

As he put on the indicator and slowed the car to turn down Zeke’s street, Casey’s heart began to race. He’d spent most of the long flight from San Jose to Chicago to Columbus rehearsing what he was going to say to Zeke, and the calm and reasoned way he would say it; but his mind went totally, uncooperatively blank when he pulled up to the curb and the first thing he saw was Zeke, shirtless and barefoot, standing in the driveway washing the GTO. 

He was rinsing suds from the hood of the car with a garden hose, and he looked so fucking _edible_ that a distracted Casey accidentally bumped the curb with the front tire, catching Zeke’s attention in a way that made Casey burn with embarrassment. _Oh great._. Way to impress Zeke with the New and Improved Casey Connor.

Casey put the Civic in park and shut off the ignition, mentally cursing his ineptitude. Couldn’t he do one fucking thing right? Sighing, Casey unfastened the seatbelt and climbed out of the car. 

Zeke had returned to his car washing. But as Casey walked up the driveway toward the GTO, he realized that Zeke wasn’t as unaware of his presence as he was pretending to be. His usually fluid movements were stiff and jerky as he bent to dip a sponge in a plastic bucket of soapsuds, and when he withdrew his hand from the water, he fumbled the sponge and dropped it in most un-Zeke-like fashion. Coach Willis would have been shocked.

Somehow this evidence of nerves in the normally unflappable Zeke Tyler cheered Casey immeasurably, as did the flush of color that highlighted the angular planes of Zeke’s face as he snatched up the dripping sponge from the driveway. 

But by the time Zeke straightened and faced Casey, he had regained his self-composure. “So, you’re back,” he said coolly, flicking a few specks of dirt from the sponge.

“For a few days, yeah.” Casey’s brief spurt of confidence evaporated. _Well Jesus, Casey, what did you expect? That Zeke was going to seize you in his arms and declare his undying love for you? Real life’s not a movie, remember?_

“Still can’t drive worth a shit, I see.” Zeke began to sweep the soapy sponge back and forth over the black paint, while Casey’s greedy eyes devoured the sight of the well-developed muscles in his arm and back bunching and relaxing under the smooth lightly tanned skin, and his faded jeans pulling tight over his ass as he leaned forward to reach the far side of the car. 

“I don’t have a car in California,” Casey protested, flushing in his turn. “I’m out of practice.” 

Zeke just gave him one of those sidelong glances he was so good at. _He knew, the fucker._ He tossed the sponge back in the bucket with a splash, and, picking up the hose again, twisted the nozzle until water streamed from it. When he had rinsed away the last of the suds, Zeke dropped the hose in the grass and grabbed a couple of old towels from a stack on the ground behind him. He threw one at Casey. It hit him squarely in the chest, bounced off and Casey lunged to prevent it from falling to the ground. 

“Dry,” Zeke ordered.

Casey did. Well, he thought as he tackled the windows, being super careful not to leave a single streak- he’d helped Zeke wash the GTO before- this was fucking typical: nothing was going according to plan. Yet in an odd way, it didn’t seem to matter. The afternoon sun was warm on his back, the GTO’s familiar sleek beauty was beneath his hands, and there was that indefinable sense, as he silently and methodically worked his way along one side of the car, that he and Zeke were a team again, as they’d been the night of the invasion.

When the car was dried and buffed to the satisfaction of Zeke’s critical gaze, he turned his attention to Casey. “You want to come inside?” he asked, tilting his head toward the house.

“No, Zeke, I’ve gotta run. I only came here to help you wash your car.”

“Smart ass.” But Zeke cracked a grin, and his somber mood seemed to lift. He let his dark eyes wander up and down Casey, taking him in thoroughly, his gaze so focused and intent it almost felt like a physical touch. “You look good, Case,” he added softly, holding Casey’s eyes, and the little pulse near the mole at the base of his throat jumped. “Really good.”

“Thanks.” Casey was proud of the fact that he didn’t stammer or blush even though it was the first real compliment Zeke had ever paid his appearance.

Without another word, Zeke picked up the bucket and towels and headed toward the house. Casey, trailing behind him, found the object of so many of his fantasies- that long, lean, naked back- directly in front of him. And as breathtaking as that back was in a shadowy black and white photo, the reality was so much better. At that moment Casey knew for certain (not that he’d really had a doubt, of course, once he’d set eyes on Zeke again) what was going to happen when they got inside the house, and it sure as fuck wasn’t going to be a sit down at the kitchen table for a heart to heart talk. 

Zeke went in through the side entrance under the car porch. He set the bucket and damp towels down on the floor just inside the door, and then led the way through the dining room and living room toward the stairs to the second floor. Both rooms were painfully neat, quiet, and dim; the heavy green and gold damask curtains were drawn so that only a crack allowed sunlight to filter in, and there were no lights turned on. 

Whenever Casey walked through this part of the spacious, elegantly decorated Tyler house, he had the uneasy sensation that no one lived here, or that perhaps time had simply stopped- despite the ticking of the grandfather clock standing in the shadows. The thick beige wall-to-wall carpeting muffled their footsteps, and the hush was almost funereal. He half expected to see black-clad mourners sitting in the armchairs and on the overstuffed sofas, weeping pitifully into lace handkerchiefs. It gave him the creeps.

Zeke usually hung out in the den or the kitchen or his bedroom, and it only made sense to leave the unused rooms dark, but it was hard not to feel a surge of pity every time Casey witnessed this evidence of the strange solitary life that Zeke led. Not that Zeke would welcome any offer of sympathy from Casey, or even needed it. He was the brightest person Casey had ever met, and he knew damn well what the score was.

Then Casey noticed that the tidy, ever-growing piles of letters and magazines and mail order catalogs weren’t adorning their usual spot on the living room coffee table.

“Have your parents been home?” Casey asked, surprised. In the months he’d been coming over here, never once had those fuckers been in evidence. If they had been, he’d have been tempted to give them a piece of his mind about their notion of parenting. Casey’s own folks might be a royal pain in the ass sometimes- all right, a lot of the time- and it was fucking surreal to sit across the breakfast table from them and remember that they’d been taken over by aliens, but at least they were fucking _there_ , at least they cared about him. Which was more than could be said for Zeke’s parents.

Strange how Casey’s feelings about Zeke, whom before the invasion he’d considered one of Herrington’s lower life forms, had done an 180º about-face. At times, he’d actually felt protective of Zeke, which when you considered that he was nearly a foot taller and fuck alone knew how many pounds heavier than Casey, was pretty damn comical.

“Yeah, they were home last week,” Zeke acknowledged in a clipped voice. “I needed them to sign some papers.”

“Where are they now?”

Zeke shrugged. “Fuck knows. Africa, I think. Come on, Casey.” He began to take the stairs two at a time, one hand gripping the banister. Casey could feel the urgency swirling in the air around them. Too long, it had been too fucking long. 

***

The instant they were through the bedroom door, they were fused together, as if some weird law of physics governed this small untidy space and it was physically impossible for them both to occupy it at the same time without touching. Their mouths met with a kind of silent desperation, and Casey’s hands were all over Zeke’s naked back, tracing those dips and hollows that so fascinated him, that he’d fantasized about so often; Zeke’s skin felt superheated, burning beneath Casey’s fingertips and palms. 

Zeke cupped Casey’s ass, pulling him up and in so that he could feel Zeke’s hard-on pulsing against his own through the layers of denim. “Casey. Jesus, _Casey_ ,” he whispered against Casey’s mouth. He moved his hands to the hem of Casey’s brown Ramones tee shirt, but paused with the shirt hem bunched in his fists, and leaned back a little. Casey gave a growl of impatience. “Zeke, you fucker, what are you doing? Don’t stop.” 

Zeke shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Case,” he said, “and I never thought I’d say this, but I kind of miss those hideous plaid shirts your mom made you wear. Undressing you was sort of the equivalent of pulling a plain brown wrapper off a magazine and finding porn underneath.”

With a whoosh Casey let out his breath, rested his forehead against Zeke’s bare chest and began to giggle as helplessly as if he was high on scat. He couldn’t help it. Well, he’d wanted Zeke to compliment him, hadn’t he? Trust Zeke to do it in his own inimitable fashion. 

“Are you laughing at me, Connor?” Zeke asked in mock outrage, as Casey unsuccessfully struggled to control his mirth.

“S-sorry,” gasped Casey, raising his head; his face felt flushed and tears of mirth blurred his vision. 

The effect on Zeke was little short of breathtaking. The smile vanished; his eyes went dark with need, and in a few hectic blurred seconds, the tee shirt was over Casey’s head, his jeans and boxers were crumpled at his feet, and he was naked and tussling on the unmade bed with an equally naked Zeke. Casey ended up on top, bracing his arms on either side of Zeke’s head as he straddled his hips. They were both breathing hard. 

“So, you’ve got me where you want me, Connor. What are you going to do about it?” Zeke challenged.

For answer, Casey bent his head and licked the hollow at the base of Zeke’s throat, where beads of sweat were gathering. Then he licked his way lower, circling around each of Zeke’s nipples in turn then lightly biting them, before soothing them with the flat of his tongue.

“Shit.” Zeke choked out, his hands fisting helplessly in the wrinkled sheets.

Casey moved gradually lower, following the trail of dark hair, going down on Zeke. He’d gotten fucking good at this, if he did say so himself, and he’d learned exactly what drove Zeke crazy. With Zeke’s harsh gasps and low incoherent moans spurring Casey on like some erotic soundtrack, he sucked first one then the other of Zeke’s sensitive balls into his mouth, rolling them around with his tongue, while his small hand moved firmly up and down on the heated velvet-over-steel of his pulsing erection until he could feel the tension coiling inside Zeke. Panting for breath, Casey rested his cheek on Zeke’s muscular thigh for a moment.

“Shit. Casey.” Zeke’s hips moved restlessly on the mattress.

Casey quickly replaced his hand with his tongue and teeth, scraping lightly up the underside of Zeke’s cock, until he reached the head. He swirled his tongue around it, tasting the musky pre-come, and then parted his swollen lips and relaxed his throat muscles, intending to take Zeke deep and suck him off. 

But before his mouth could close around him, Zeke’s hands were on Casey’s shoulders and pushing him back almost roughly. “No,” Zeke ground out, “I’m not coming in your mouth, Casey. Not this time. Not after so fucking long…”

There was a blur of motion, and Casey suddenly found their positions reversed, and Zeke on top. His face was flushed and his expression almost feral. “Too fucking long…” he whispered, and fumbled in the nightstand drawer for the lube. 

Zeke pushed Casey’s knees up by his ears with his forearms as he slowly and steadily filled him, and then the world dissolved away, leaving nothing but the exquisite tension building and building as Zeke moved inside him and touched that spot that made Casey cry out with mindless pleasure. His climax came in starbusts of color and sensation that blinded him and left him scattered and adrift until he heard, “ _Casey_.” Zeke breathed the word into Casey’s sweat-damp hair as he came, and Casey was anchored again, cradling Zeke’s head against his neck as the intensity of his climax wracked his body.

When it was over, Zeke rolled off Casey, and collapsed on his back. “Oh shit,” he gasped. “Shit, that was…”

Instinctively Casey began to move, edging away as he had always done before.

“ _No._ ” Zeke reached out and took Casey’s bicep in a gentle but inexorable grip. “Don’t you fucking _ever_ run out on me again, Casey,” he said, his voice as rough as his touch was gentle, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Then he pulled Casey tightly against his side, and pinned him there with one arm around his shoulders as if daring him to try to move.

Casey was too stunned to say a word. But he let his body relax into Zeke’s hold, and his cheek rest on the warm salt-damp skin at the juncture of his shoulder and arm. He felt Zeke’s fingers begin to pet the hair at the nape of his neck, and that gave him the nerve to lay his palm flat on Zeke’s chest, right above his heart. The steady, gradually slowing beat was reassuring and gave solidity to a moment that might otherwise have felt as unreal as the day he discovered that their high school was being taken over by aliens. 

Cautiously, Casey glanced up, almost afraid of what he would find in Zeke’s face: regret for this moment of tenderness? But he looked relaxed; maybe it wasn’t too much of a stretch to say that he looked contented. For once he hadn't even reached for his cigarettes. It occurred to Casey that now would be the time to ask those questions that had been his sole purpose for coming home in the first place. 

But somewhere between the moment he’d arrived and this moment, he’d had an epiphany: the questions weren’t important after all. _I've been such a fucking fool_ , he thought. So Zeke had only ever said that one word. So what? There was more meaning, more _feeling_ in that one word, _Casey_ , than in a hundred words spoken by someone else. 

Still, there was something on Casey’s mind, something he had to do. “I took a photo of you," he blurted out. "While you were asleep.” He wasn’t sure why it was so important to confess this transgression to Zeke; he only knew that it was.

“Yeah? Is it any good?” Zeke looked down at him, clearly curious rather than angry, as Casey had feared he might be.

“It’s brilliant,” Casey stated without a hint of false modesty. “But then I had a pretty fucking amazing subject to work with."

Zeke only laughed, but Casey thought he looked pleased and maybe even a little embarrassed. 

“You know, you could make one hell of a living as a nude model, Zeke,” Casey commented daringly, his fingers drifting across Zeke’s taut abdomen.

“Only for you, Case,” he replied softly. “No one else.” 

The words settled in Casey’s heart, filling it so that he couldn’t speak. But then Zeke abruptly released Casey and sat up, and Casey nearly howled with disappointment. “Let’s take the car for a drive,” Zeke said.

“ _Now?_ Jesus, Zeke.” Casey wasn’t willing to give in without a fight. He slid his hand over Zeke’s hair-rough thigh and into the dark curls between his legs. 

“Now.” Zeke firmly removed Casey’s wandering hand, but he was grinning. “Nice try, Case.” He climbed out of the bed and hauled Casey unceremoniously to his feet. “Last one in the shower has to give the other a blow job,” he challenged, his eyes gleaming.

Jostling elbows and banging hips, they sprinted to the bathroom. It was a tie.

***

The sun was starting to sink toward the horizon in streaks of pink and gold when they finally made it out to the GTO. Casey buckled himself into the passenger seat and looked inquiringly at Zeke. “Where are we going?” 

Zeke raised his eyebrows. “Does it matter?” he asked, exactly as he had that first time.

Casey needed only a split second to consider the question. “No,” he said, and it was the truth. As long as they were together, it didn’t matter. 

With an approving look, Zeke turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred to life. _God, I’ve missed this_ , Casey thought as Zeke backed the gleaming black car out the driveway with his usual reckless abandon and they peeled off down the street. 

They’d reached the outskirts of Herrington before Zeke spoke again. “Here.” He reached over and picked up an unmarked manila envelope that was lying on the dashboard, and tossed it onto Casey’s lap. “Read this.”

Curiously, Casey opened the flap; inside was a bunch of official looking papers. He pulled them out and quickly scanned the top sheet. The moment he saw the letterhead, his heart began to pound with excitement. 

_Dear Mr. Tyler,  
Congratulations on your acceptance to Stanford University beginning with the winter semester…_

"I don't believe it." He met Zeke's eyes, and in them was the answer to every question he’d never been brave enough to ask. "You fucker, why didn't you tell me? I thought…"

“Did I really have to?” Zeke asked softly. “You know, for a bright guy, you can be unfuckingbelievably stupid, Casey. You didn't think I was going to let the Hero of Herrington High slip through my fingers, did you? Who the fuck do you think I am, Delilah?”

“Fuck you, Zeke,” said Casey happily, joy fizzing and rocketing through his body as if his veins were filled with champagne.

“Eloquent as ever. Jesus, I’ve missed you, Casey.” Zeke pointed the GTO at the on ramp to the highway, and gunned the engine. 

_I’ve missed you, too._ Casey carefully put the papers back in the envelope and set it on the dashboard. Then he unfastened his seatbelt and rolled down the window. Leaning forward, he crossed his bare arms on the frame and pillowed his head on them, his face turned toward the setting sun. 

As the GTO accelerated onto the highway with a roar, and the wind rushed over and around him, Casey smiled and closed his eyes. He knew beyond all doubt now that this was how it was meant to end: him and Zeke in the GTO, riding off together into the sunset.

~end~


End file.
